To feel connected
by fightfortherightsofhouseelves
Summary: He always mended things and people, pieced the shards together, found a way to make it all alright. Surely, he could do it once more. Surely, he could find a way to feel connected, to never let go.


Written for: QLFC, Round two

Chudley Cannons, Seeker

Mandatory: Must be set before the Golden Trio

Prompt: Write about the invention of a magical object, potion, or other creation

Word count: 2,530

* * *

His hands were always working. Always busy disconnecting elements just to piece them back together. Always busy mending. For a great part of his life, he'd been under the impression that he simply enjoyed a good puzzle, the thrill of getting things done, you know, of seeing something come out of his own bare hands. However, once he noticed his friend being lonely and in pain, marginalized for being different, James Potter came to the realization that, in fact, he'd been driven by the purpose and not by the end result.

James liked repairing things and people, he liked being there for his friends when they were feeling down or broken, he liked helping them out. With his parents, he always gave back as much as he received, and he did receive so much from them. He had been loved, he had been cuddled and he had been sheltered from the darkness of the world. What they offered him as he grew up, it was invaluable.

Thus, it shouldn't have come as a surprise to him that one day, one rainy, cloudy, grey day, his gumptious hands were fast at work once again, frantically twirling back and forth to grasp one piece and replace another. The nineteen year old had no clue how he could still find enough energy to create or even think, but, quite frankly, he did not care to find an answer. What he cared for, oh, what he really needed right then, was to give her more time, just a bit more time. Why was there never enough time? His eyes fell to the letter strewn across the table and a curse caught in his throat.

The _whys_ , the _hows_ , the bargains made with fate, they no longer mattered. His father had drawn his last breath merely days ago and James had been a wreck ever since. But somehow – somehow he could not part from the thought that his mother, his beloved mother, would always be there, a kind word and a kiss on his forehead before he went to bed. Nevertheless, Dragon Pox was unforgiving and not even Dumbledore's genius could revert the evil that was done.

Hunched over his desk, back aching from the endless hours spent in toil, the wizard sighed and pushed back his glasses. They were always slipping down his nose, damn them. And damn the wretched silence taking over the house, the bloody walls that kept quiet, the infuriating thoughts smashing inside his skull, threatening to crack it open. He was angry and he was overwhelmed by grief. He was alone, as Lily had been on a mission for the last five days and he did not find it in him to call her back, to call her back so he could cry and hold her in his arms. He could not cry, no. No yet, not now when his mother needed him to be there for her, as she'd always been for him.

So yes, his hands were working, piecing bits and bobs together, winding and gluing everything with the flick of his wand. He got the idea from Dumbledore, as he listened to his mentor recount stories he relived with the aid of his Pensieve. He saw how the stone basin could be useful, particularly on a day like this, when his mind and sanity seemed to be drifting away, but it was not exactly what he needed. What he required was more personal, something which he could easily carry and put to use in times of sorrow. In fact, James ached for his mother's voice; he yearned to hear the sound of her low, guttural voice caress the words she'd soon cease to speak. Fortunately (ha, _fortunately_ , the word sounded like a slap in the face for what of all that was happening was even remotely fortunate?), if he was able to work fast enough, the Mementor would do just that: absorb the words of the speaker and replay them in a loop when the carrier needed soothing. That way, he could forever hear her read to him, encourage him and advise him. That way, the delicate sound of her telling him how loved he was would never disappear far inside the depths of his memory. That way, she could never truly die.

Two bitter tears rolled down the hollows of his stubbled cheeks, colliding on the mahogany of the heavy desk. He could not think of his parents as being dead. He was just nineteen, he was still a boy. He needed them in his life, he needed them to share with him the what was to come in his life, both the happy moments and the terrible ones. He needed them to meet his children and see him become a father. He simply needed them. He thought of Lily losing her parents the year before; he remembered her walking the Hogwarts corridors like a ghost, pale and slim from all the nights she could not go to sleep. He tried to support her as much as he could back then, but, the truth was, he did not really understand her pain and they were both secretly aware of it. But now he did, he understood it all too well – so well that he felt his mind bleed and his heart break and his soul shred itself to pieces all at once.

A bristle howl cut the night's stillness in half, yet nothing moved or changed in Godric's Hollow. The small village was a bastion of the past; it had seen worse and it had faced grimmer times. Confined by the walls of the house, his throat soar, James screamed again, no longer willing to hold the hurt inside. He roared like a wounded animal and crashed his fists into the desk as hard as he could, sending the oval black object flying. His teeth clenched, his nose running and his eyes blurred with tears, the messy haired wizard cried away his pain that night, merciless hour after hour after hour; he cried until he fell asleep. It's how Lily found him at the crack of dawn, glasses askew and hair wild amidst the chaos of the room.

Exhausted in the mission's aftermath, basic instincts kicking in, she nearly screamed. Clutching onto the doorframe for support, the young woman steadied herself and drew in a shaky breath. Recovering from the shock, she took an uncertain step towards her husband, when an object she had never seen before caught her eye. The redhead bent slightly and stretched her arm out to snatch it in hopes of understanding what it was. Unfortunately, as soon as her fingers circled around the cool shell of the oval item, a piercing shriek resounded from it, making Lily drop it in a moment of sheer fright.

In less than a second, James Potter knocked down his chair and shielded his wife between the wall and his own body. Wand at the ready, he challenged the villain to reveal himself.

"James, what are you doing?" Lily's muffled voice echoed from behind him.

"Hush, I think there's someone inside our house," he pressed her further into the wall with the back of his hand, tightening his grasp on the wand.

"For Merlin's sake, I can't breathe," she gave an exasperated cry before pushing him away and filling her lungs with sweet fresh air. "There's no one here, James," she added, fixing her ruffled hair. "Just that thing – it bawled like a dying creature."

James didn't say anything. His eyes slowly shifted to the place on the floor she was pointing towards and then to his left, where the massive desk reigned - and, on top of it, the letter from his mother. The scenes from the night before came flooding back to him, rendering him useless, defeated. A bitter smile playing on his lips, he reckoned his invention was indeed functioning the way it was designed to: it captured his last utterance and replayed it for the carrier.

"James, wha – what is that?" she tried again, sounding more worried this time. The way he blanched, the ruckus inside the room, none predicted too good an omen.

"It's a Mementor," he attempted a flat answer, left hand immediately flying to his hair.

"Never heard of such a thing. Is it a dark object?" she closed the gap between them, taking his hand and bringing it to her cheek. His demeanor troubled her, his stammers and quietness indicating that something dreadful must have happened during her absence.

"It's not. I," he paused, his voice starting to shake, "I created it. I created it, Lily, because Father is dead and now Mother –" the man pressed his fingers to his temples as hard as he could and leaned lower and lower until he was stretched out on the floor, his body trembling madly. Lily felt her face turn white and her legs sway beneath her, but she discerned that that was not the time to be weak. It was the time to be strong for the man she loved, to drag him back to life if she had to, to show him the light. So she stood there with him as he cried, she held him and supported him in that time of unspeakable grief. He cried like a child in her arms and she kissed his forehead, the top of his head, his cheeks, his lips, his swollen eyes. She held him close to her heart and promised to never let go.

Little by little, he recovered and allowed his mouth to talk. Short sentences turned into phrases as he rolled the story of the past night down his tongue. He talked about his childhood and about the love of his parents, he told her his favourite bedtime stories and how his mother made them up for him at his request.

"I wanted to create something that would always remind me of her, that would keep me connected. Because I'm afraid, Lily, I am bloody terrified that a year from now, or ten, or fifty, hell knows, I won't be able to remember the sound of her voice…"

Lily closed her eyes and buried his head in her chest, unable to say that she too had carried the same fears with her, that she too found herself paralyzed by the same terrors. She too had nightmares where her parents came back to her, only to find that they no longer had faces, nor voices. She usually woke up screaming and so shaken that she could not sleep for nights on end.

So she said nothing and just listened to James, listened to his ragged breathing, to his sobs and muffled words. She watched him take the black object to his mother's house, lay it on her nightstand as he held her hand, carry it with him to her funeral and refuse to come to bed night after night since the evening they buried her. Lily listened through the locked door of his study, heard Euphemia Potter's voice echo from the magical device, heart breaking at James' pained cries. It killed her to see him like that and nothing she said convinced him to open the door and let her help him. He was in such deep agony, holding on to the last memory of his beloved mother as if, by listening to her last words over and over again, he could keep her alive. She wanted to tear the door down, hex it open if she had to, but something told her it was not the right way to approach the situation. In the end, he was exactly like her: he could speak just when he was ready and pushing him endlessly would only make things worse. If only Sirius or Remus or Peter were there, if only she could write to them. If only…

After five days, Lily wrote to Dumbledore. Somehow, he never failed her and she had turned desperate enough to try anything. James had been without sleep, water or food and she feared that soon he might lose his mind, or worse, his will to live.

"James, it's Albus," the old wizard gently rapped his fingers to the study door, but received no answer. The only sound inside was Euphemia's voice, a low, calm tone he recognised all too well, repeating the same words over and over again. "I'm letting you know that a door cannot keep me outside, James. I am simply polite enough to knock first," Dumbledore informed.

Heavy steps reverberated and the door steadily opened. The spectre of a man, dirty and lost, stared him in the eye. A heavy moment passed between them and James cracked the door slightly wider, as if to say "if you must." He turned his back and dragged his feet to the desk, dropping his weight into the chair in front of it. Dumbledore elegantly sat himself on chintz armchair he summoned from thin air, connecting the ends of his long fingers underneath his chin.

"So," the greyhaired wizard broke the silence, "Lily's told me you invented something. May I have a look?"

James reluctantly released his tight clutch on the oval object and reached out to place it in the headmaster's outstretched palm. Touching it with great care, Albus Dumbledore analyzed the Mementor on every side, turning it left and right beneath his crooked nose. Without a word, he passed it back to James.

"I needed to hear her," his voice trembled, words coming out unsure, hoarse from the days and nights of screaming and crying. "I had to hear her," he wiped his nose with a part of his stained sleeve.

"I will tell you one thing, James," the old man's voice was steady, but his gaze softened. "It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that."

James Potter's eyes opened wide, hefty breath catching in his throat. He could not yet articulate the thought that was beginning to form at the back of his mind, so he just shook his head and remained quiet, still. Somewhere in between that moment and the settling of the night, Lily took his hand and steered him to their bed, wrapped him in his preferred blanket and sang him to sleep. He did not know when Dumbledore had left or how many hours did he lay there, eyes closed and his heart turned against the world. Slowly, he came to accept that he could not go on like that, that his wife needed him and his friends needed him and the whole bloody world needed him. He was James Potter and he mended things.

A week later, still haunted by the headmaster's words, he smashed his own creation to pieces. The young man tried to turn deaf to his mother's voice coming from inside it as he hit it over and over again. Dumbledore was right, it did him no good to become so entranced with it, so obsessed with it that he blocked out all forms of life and love. Suffering, he thought, was part of life and he would get through it, one day at a time.


End file.
